The middy was unusually grave that morning as he sat down to breakfast. They were all aware that he had returned from London late the previous night, and were more or less eager to know the result of his visit, but on observing his gravity they forbore to ask questions. Only the poor Frenchman ventured to say sadly, “Failed again, I see.”
“Not absolutely,” said Foster, who was anxious that the invalid should not have his breakfast spoilt by being excited. “The visit I paid to the solicitor did indeed turn out a failure, but—but I have still strong hopes,” he added cheerily.
“So hab I, Geo’ge,” remarked Peter the Great, from behind the chair of Miss Sommers, who presided at the breakfast table, for although Peter had resigned his right to equality as to feeding, he by no means gave up his claim to that of social intercourse.
“Come, Laronde. Cheer up, my friend,” said Hugh Sommers heartily; “I feel sure that we’ll manage it amongst us, for we have all entered on the search heart and soul.”
“Right you are, sir,” ejaculated Brown, through a mouthful of buttered toast.
“It only requires patience,” said the middy, “for London is a big place, you know, and can’t be gone over in a week or two.”
“Das so, Geo’ge,” said Peter, nodding approval.
After breakfast Foster sought a private interview with Hester, who undertook, with much fear, to communicate the news to Laronde.
“You see, I think it will come best from you, Hester,” said George in a grave fatherly manner, “because a woman always does these sort of things better than a man, and besides, poor Laronde is uncommonly fond of you, as—”
He was going to have said “as everybody is,” but, with much sagacity, he stopped short and sneezed instead. He felt that a commonplace cough from a man with a sound chest would inevitably have betrayed him—so he sneezed. “A hyperkrite as usual!” he thought, and continued aloud—